


Satiation

by psychae



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Adrenaline, Blood, Clothing Kink, Exploration, Gen, Gore, Gore fetish, Masturbation, Medical, Medical Kink, Origins, Other, Self touching, Sexuality, Shame, Surgery, Touching, Wet Clothing, dirty - Freeform, germaphobia, operation, play, playing god, slight blood play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-15
Updated: 2014-03-15
Packaged: 2018-01-15 20:57:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1318930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/psychae/pseuds/psychae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As an emergency room surgeon leading a double life as a cannibalistic serial murderer, Doctor Hannibal Lecter opts to explore the human anatomy in many ways. In this series he begins to learn about himself by considering both his sanguine urges and some that are more salacious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satiation

Young surgeons’ hands, coated in latex, buried beneath the ribcage of a dying man. They worked meticulously and with grace- if grace can be seen in the context of tinkering metal scalpels, clamps and the sterility of an operating room.  
  
Blood pooled and was suctioned periodically as the young man worked. This is to be one of the first major operations of his career as an emergency room surgeon. The patient’s heart pumped fitfully as the fledging Doctor Hannibal Lecter toiled, his own heart racing. Each thud drowning out the sounds of squelching, wet organs and metallic clinks.   
  
The patient had been rushed to his care in a condition so critical he hadn’t had time to properly don most of the usual surgical garb. He was the only surgeon on staff that night. A thin procedure mask covered his mouth and nose and his white lab coat was pulled back over his forearms. His cropped hair fell around the frame of his face in deep caramel strands as he bent over the operating table. Hannibal’s dark eyes intent on removing the foreign object penetrating the patient’s thorax.  
  
His gloved fingers twisted, wrist deep into the man’s chest and the white, rolled up sleeves of his lab coat sopped blood. The embolism in the thoracic aorta was blocking the oxygen rich blood from travelling throughout the unconscious man’s body; infarction was imminent and Hannibal had to work quickly. He removed the embolus and the small aortic dissection tore further. The blood loss, at first slow, now became a life threatening hemorrhage.  
  
Adrenaline surged through Doctor Lecter; his chest drowning in the cool electric feeling as he watched his patient’s fill with blood. His mouth opened behind the facemask as he gasped at the sensation. Warm breath stifled by it's fibers. He flung the bloodied bullet he removed into a metal pan to his right, pinching the gushing tear as best he could with his left hand. The heart sporadically pumped blood into the aortic arch and out of the rupture, stippling Hannibal’s exposed arms and coat with bright red.  
  
The heart fluttered and seized, and then it stopped.  
  
Hannibal took a moment to stare at the motionless cavity before slowly removing his hand from the body. His heart was still palpitating in a way he was unused to. The two nurses in the room looked at him with wide eyes as his arms fell limply to his sides. He did not look at them- he didn't even notice them.  
  
His respiration was still hastened, mouth still slightly agape as he gazed down at the bloody mass. The adrenaline hadn’t subsided yet- but it had altered. With each beat of his heart it travelled through him and began changing into something tingling and inviting. He wasn’t shaking as is so common after a surge from the adrenal glands, he was heated. Excited.  
  
He felt carnal, animal, standing there covered in antiseptic, sweat and blood.  
  
He felt _good_.  
  
After several minutes of the deafening drumming and staring at the mutilated corpse in silence he emerged from his abstracted state. He realized the nurses had started turning off the equipment and cleaning silently around him. One of them looked up at him with sad eyes, a look of sympathy painted on her face.  
They thought he was upset. Longing over this dead person he couldn’t save, standing there in shock and woe.  
  
“You should clean yourself off, Doctor.” she said in a small voice. It had the tone of a mother pacifying a child who’s scraped one’s knee.  
  
He furrowed his brow, trying to make sense of her expression and why they were being so careful. He couldn't think straight. Suddenly he was hyperaware of the feeling circulating through his body as it reverberated hotly under his navel.  
  
He stepped away from the table and lurched forward; ignoring the nurses' shocked expressions and turned to the door. He pushed past it and into one of the bright halls of the hospital’s ER. A passing paramedic jumped as Doctor Lecter rushed past him, covered in blood soaked clothes, still wearing a mask and gloves. The paramedic watched incredulously as Hannibal turned hastily around the corner.  
  
He didn't know where he was going, and made his way to the first door he saw, shoving into it and locking it tightly behind him.  
  
Hannibal panted heavily and leaned on the door. He tore the procedure mask off of his face and tried to level his breathing. This feeling wouldn’t leave him. He tried to collect himself and looked around. He realized he was in a bathroom and was thankful it wasn’t a supply closet.  
  
He disposed of his gloves and mask and realized exactly _how_ covered in blood he was as he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror.  
  
His lab coat’s partially rolled sleeves were completely saturated. His shirt collar and tie where they poked above the long robe had specks of blood across them. Both his forearms were covered in a swath of the sticky red substance. It was still wet, coagulating. He looked at his face, flushed and sweaty. Where he had pulled off the mask there were three distinct red smears. Little red lines trickled down from the bloody prints with each drip of sweat. It pooled under his chin and dripped onto the grey-tiled floor, leaving droplets of cloudy, sweat-salted blood.   
  
At the sight of his convoluted appearance his stomach lurched with the same mutated adrenaline and he felt a dull pull in the cleft of his pants.  
  
He was hot. He felt fevered, the sweat proved as much. He needed to satisfy whatever it was that had come over him.  
  
Pulling his coat aside, he looked down at the growing shape between his legs. He pushed the base of his palm onto the bulging mass. The action caused him to moan slightly and close his eyes. Once closed he was drawn back to the operating room, again seeing his arms digging into the chest of the recently deceased gunshot victim. His erection surged at the image. He gripped it harder, cupping his hand around the middle and tugging firmly. He felt it’s radiating heat on his palm and again envisioned the dead man’s open thoracic cavity.  
  
He gasped and pulled harder.  
  
 _The blood spurting onto his arms…_ He rubbed the tip with his thumb through the fabric of his slacks. The friction puling on his foreskin and the pressure making him pulsate. His hips swung forward involuntarily and he grasped firmly to tug again.  
  
His arm tensed and his movements became more violent as he worked himself over his pants- the scene of his patient’s death playing sickly as he did so.  
  
He gasped breathily, mouth slacking and brow creasing with ecstasy as the lack of control each wave of climax brought flushed through his nerves.  
  
He bent forward, nearly collapsing into the wall, but caught his weight with his left hand. Panting, he smothered his ejaculating phallus, pushing hard into it's stiff pulsations. He shivered and his knees buckled as the waves swept through him. Quaking again and then a second time as he finished. He could feel the hot, wet semen through the fabric of his pants with his fingertips as he pressed on the now subsiding lump.  
   
His breath was finally beginning to normalize. The adrenaline rush that had mutated into this act of personal satiation was finally gone. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. He saw the arm he was leaning against the wall with and straightened himself out. A stark red handprint marked where he had supported himself and Hannibal realized he was still soaked in blood.  
  
Reason began to return to his mind. He pulled off the soiled lab coat and turned to the sink, scrubbing his bloodied forearms in disgust- revolted at what he had just done. Masturbating in a restroom like some uncontrollable pervert. He was _covered in blood_ , for god’s sake! He had just preformed a surgery, albeit an unsuccessful one. The fact that it was unsuccessful made it even more repugnant!  
  
The soapy pink water swirled down the drain, flecks of the darker, dried blood trailing down after it. Hannibal wiped the streaking blood off his cheek and chin with a wetted napkin and started scrubbing at the wall, searching for any other remnants of his shameful act. As he scrubbed at the floor he was all too aware of the cooling semen in his trousers as it shifted with each movement. He gagged slightly.   
  
He was not normal. He was not a sheep to be herded with the rest of the people he lived on this earth with. No matter how hard he tried to convince _them_ , he was not one of them and _he_ was all too aware of that. _He_ was better than that. Than _this._  He never tried to convince himself of his normalcy, but _this_. This action was all too human of him; _too mortal._  
  
He had preformed surgeries before, although none so intensive. He was a newer surgeon, after all. He had even killed prior this event and nothing so strange had occurred. He was never so lost in his physicality that it had prevailed over his mind in such a manner. He had always been calculated- calm, collected and logical. Always the coherent and clean one. Always capable of discerning between each emotion and sensation, rationalizing his thoughts and making difficult decisions easily; one of the reasons he became a surgeon.  
   
Today he skewed from the fabricated image of himself and he began to doubt. Perhaps he _had_ fooled himself into believing his own meticulous self-construction.  
  
Hannibal attended to his dirtied pants, scrubbing more violently than the act that made them so. Once they were cleaned as best they could be, he closed his eyes and shook his head in an attempt to collect himself. He straightened his shoulders and cleared his throat as he exited the restroom. He was now donning the façade of disappointed surgeon.  
  
The emergency room staff thought he was a man shaken by the trauma of losing his first patient.


End file.
